The Beach House
by Little Obsessions
Summary: "You're acting like that distinction doesn't exist. Don't bring me here, to this place, and make demands of me. I wouldn't do it to you. I need you and you know that." One summer is spent recovering all the things they lost and looking at all the reasons why. Pierre is also included in this chapter story.
1. One

Disclaimer: None of the characters herein belong to me and are the property of Disney and Meg Cabot. I make no monetary gain from writing.

Author's notes:

**I think it's an established line in the films that Clarisse and Joe have a past - it's subtle to the point of possibly not existing but it is inferred. Here is my take on it. **

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><p>"Ugh," the voice on the other end, distant and immature and a little young, seemed less than enthusiastic, "She's still in a meeting? It's nearly time for me to go to sleep."<p>

"You know there's a time difference," he laughed a little, rubbing the scuffed toe of his new brogue, which was propped on the desk just outside the conference room, "And you know she's busy."

He had ducked out to take this call ten minutes ago and was still on the phone.

"Yeah," there was a pause and he could almost hear the cogs in her brain whirring, "So, what's she got planned for me?"

"Am I detecting a certain lack of enthusiasm, princess?"

"Well done Joe," she sighed, "Do you know that I've been Princess for three years come this summer. I've been to the opera house six times and the Cathedral Twelve. Do you know how many times I've been to the amusement park at Mertz? Zero. I know it's there but have I ever been? No. I'm eighteen – not eighty."

"I take your point," he answered, "How about a dance when you get here? That's fun, right?"

"Wrong. Dancing to dance music is fun, dancing the wango – not so much."

"I'm offended," he laughed.

"You're a good dancer. It's just boring! Seriously," her voice turned poisonously sweet, "Will you talk to her?"

"Ah," he laughed again, "That's your game. Very sly."

He had a very well exploited soft spot for the princess. Mia was as clever as any other woman in the world when it came to manipulation so she often asked him to 'speak to her'. He didn't mind it really; if he had, he would not have done it for her.

"Come on Joe!" She cried, exasperation evident in her voice, "She always listens to you."

"Ok, ok," he acquiesced.

"So," Mia asked, "You coming to pick me up?"

"Of course," he answered, "My flight leaves tonight."

"And you'll be here in the morning! Lily's staying tonight, then Lars and mom will bring us to the airport. Lars is looking forward to coming home – I can tell."

"Are you looking forward to coming home?"

"Of course I am," she sighed a little, "But I wouldn't mind a bit of a holiday now and then."

The door to the conference room opened and Clarisse, with Sebastian at her back, emerged. He smiled at her. Clarisse had removed her suit jacket and it was slung over her arm – obviously warm. Her shirt was blindingly white – he hadn't noticed that this morning.

"Your grandma's here," he said, before holding the cell phone out the Queen, "Princess Amelia, Your Majesty."

She smiled – flustered and thankful – and taking it from him, and swapping it for her briefcase, strode ahead.

He followed behind her, watching her closely as she descended the stairs at the back of the Chancellery, and ducked into the limo. He rather liked the view his job had to offer. It had its disadvantages of course but, on the whole, it was rather useful. She maintained the conversation all the while; how was it to be single? How was prom? Had she visited her Princeton accommodation yet, like she'd promised? Would she make sure she slept on the plane so she was ready to meet her directly?

Ten minutes after being back in the car, the air conditioning on full, she handed his cell phone back.

"My goodness Joseph," she pulled her shirt out from her damp skin, "It's terribly warm."

"It is my dear," he agreed, reaching forward and catching Shades' eye briefly and, like a scolded school boy, pressed the partition button. Shades was decent enough to pretend they hadn't made eye contact at all.

"She talks at a million miles an hour," Clarisse pulled her briefcase towards her, taking a file from within, "My ear is actually sore."

He laughed, watching her slipping her shoes off and curling her toes into the carpet underneath.

"What do I have next?"

He checked his watch, "Quick lunch. Meeting with Charlotte. Dress fitting for the Independence Day ball and parade. Dinner...with me."

She titled her head to the side, smiled and reached out to cup his cheek, "You're leaving tonight my dear, aren't you?"

"Just an overnight," he smiled, "Will you eat with me?"

"Of course," she slid her hand subtly towards his, "Of course."

"Mia asked a favour of me," he rubbed his fingers over hers.

"Oh?" She was half-listening, lost in the paper work before her.

"She asked me to speak to you," he continued, "About her schedule."

"Oh?" She placed the papers aside and said dryly, "You have my undivided attention Joseph."

"She made a reasonable point. She was talking about relaxing a little more," her mouth formed in a little protesting 'o' but he held up his hand and she closed her mouth, "I've already thought about what we could do. She was taking about going to the amusement park at Mertz and things like that. We can reschedule your time anyway – the Parliament is out of session too, meaning your schedule is more fluid. I can arrange it all."

He was aware he sounded a little earnest – and he was. He felt it might be an opportunity to get her to relax so it was indeed a matter where he was hoping to make some impact. She needed to wind down a little. He had the distinct feeling that she was punishing herself, in a sort of corporal way, with a schedule that gave her little rest and he was even more worried that he was to blame for her need to punish herself.

"Ok," she said dubiously, "You have my permission to organise something a little more appealing to her age, – she still has to have lessons though and attend the public engagements I have arranged for her. The irony is that I pay for Lily to come on every trip with her so she is not bored! It's important she understands-"

"It's important she has a balance," he interrupted, "And I know you let Lily come along with her but Lily must be bored too. Clarisse, I get bored."

"Yes. I know," she sighed, "You're right. It's very annoying, as always."

"As always," he smirked, a little unwilling to broach his next suggestion, "Would it suit you if we spent a few days at the beach house?"

He called it the beach house to give it a sort of anonymity. He never said 'my house' and, in fact, he hadn't even mentioned it for years. He had been building up to this for some time, he supposed.

She lifted her head slowly and looked at him. She brushed her hair, as was her habit when she was nervous, behind her ear. He touched her cheek, her neck, then squeezed her hand. He felt the need to fill the silence.

"I think it might be good for her to -"

"Ok Joseph," she cut through him quietly, "Yes. Yes please."

"It'll be good for her," he touched the back of her neck.

"And you think it will be good for me? I'm not naïve."

"No," he pulled her towards him, but they were nearing the palace, "I know that but sometimes it's good to go back and reminisce. I am going to ask Pierre to join us too – don't you think it'd be good for Mia to get to know him better?"

"I hate that I trust you," she said, half- joking, "And Joseph, you think so much more emotionally than I do. You are saying what I should be saying – that Pierre should know her better. Why don't I think of that?"

"Because you're interested in the smaller details – that's your job," he soothed.

She sidled neared to him, knowing that this was probably their only brief moment of the day, and nuzzled into him.

"I can't believe how much I let you away with," she laughed finally, closing her eyes.

"I know," he kissed the side of her head, "But you always do. I'll do all the cooking."

"You bet you will," she laughed dryly, sitting up and slipping on her shoes.

-0-

Mia enjoyed the plane journey to Genovia better in the daylight, where you could see miles and miles of ocean below you and the world fly underneath. Now they were enrobed in darkness and the only lights were the lights from the tails of the plane. She couldn't wait to get home and, she admitted to herself, see her grandma. At times though it was boring to be acting like a proper queen when she was still desperate to go out and actually _see_ her country. She only ever viewed her country through the lens of others – her grandma's pragmatic one, the parliament's old-fashioned one, the media's twisted one, Joe's amusingly foreign one. She had barely spent time out in her country, with her people. She hadn't even saw the coast properly and she was irked by it.

Joseph said something, his mouth moving quickly, from across the plane, motioning for her to take the earphones out that she was sharing with Lily. They were listening to their new fascination – cheesy, slightly erotic, romantic novel audio- books. They liked to listen to them then discuss, and giggle, about them.

"Huh?" She removed the earphones and realising she was shouting, clamped her hand over her mouth. Feeling safe again she took them away and repeated, "Huh?"

"I said your grandmother asked you to sleep and I strongly suggest you and miss Lilly do that," he laughed a little, putting his laptop aside.

"What are you doing?" Mia asked, pointing at his computer.

"Looking over your grandmother's schedule, catching up on reports...my job, basically," he looked at Lars, who smiled back in a sort of glazed way.

Lars was going back home to a family he hadn't seem for 3 months; not since Mia had been in Genovia at spring. She felt sorry for him; half-way across the world because Joe had ordered him to go there. Originally it had been Joe, in the first few months, but her grandmother had called him back after the second time he had returned to the USA. Lars got a little more money, and basically the entirety of the time she was in Genovia was counted as leave, to do this job. Still; it seemed a little harsh.

"Hey," Lilly tapped her on the shoulder, "You're going to miss a good bit."

"What are you listening to anyway?" Joseph asked.

"Oh Joe, it's young people stuff," she said, nudging Lilly.

Her friend removed her ear phone. The both guzzled down a coke (the last coke she would get, since grandma didn't really approve of it being in the palace) that the air hostess had put in front of them.

"Hey Joe?"

"Yes," Joe looked up again.

She loved talking to Joe – not only because he was witty and clever – but because he genuinely wanted to talk to her. He liked her conversation and he liked her for who she was and she loved that he made that clear. She knew he defended her when her grandma was giving her a good dressing down and she liked him even more because he never told her. He wouldn't embarrass her grandmother like that.

"Why does grandma always send you for me?" She pointed at Lars, who was proof-reading something for Joe, "Why can't Lars just escort me home?"

"Because I can parachute you out of here in a moment," he answered, head still over his work.

She snorted, doing her best to keep her coke in her mouth, and Lilly laughed too.

"Shut up!"

He looked at her, a sly smile on his face. She was never sure if he was joking or not with that smile. She looked at Lars, then back to Joe. The bodyguard was smiling too in the same enigmatic way. He laughed again and wiggled his eye brows at her.

"You don't spend years in the Spanish elite force and not learn how to throw yourself from a plane with some skill," he continued, his tone pan and serious.

"You're kidding us," Lily laughed, "There's no way."

"See that?" he pointed to the rucksack that was, bizarrely, always on the plane, "I could have you out of here in 2 minutes."

"Uhu, sure," Mia stood up, going towards the rucksack.

"No," Joe stood up, grabbing for her and pulling her into a bear-hug, "You'll tangle the silk, then what would your grandma do to me? Hmmm?"

"Kill you?"

"Perhaps," he sat back down and she did so too, still unsure, "Leave my rucksack alone – it's full of terrible secrets. Now, please sweet princess, get to sleep."

He kissed her forehead.

She smiled at him just before he dimmed the lights in the cabin. The only thing that remained was the light from the monitor and it reflected off of his face and the glasses he was wearing. When had Joe started wearing glasses to read?

It seemed like the kind of thing her grandma would do – arrange for the worst possible eventually and make sure that Joe was there to look after her. She watched Joe working for a while before sleep claimed her and realised that she looked forward to these journeys because of him.

He was one of life's good guys. She liked to hug him at the airport, to smell the clean cologne and hint of leather from him. He smelled safe and honest. She thought of how he always led her home in a kind, decent way. He'd update her, give her advice, pat her head in a grandfatherly way and always make sure she had a 6 pack of coke.

"Hey Joe?" She said sleepily.

"Uhu princess?" He was lying on the couch now that ran along the cabin, scrunched up (she often forgot how tall he was) and trying to get some sleep.

"I'd happily jump out of a plane with you."

"You're insane," he laughed, "Nothing like your grandma."

"I know."

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><p><strong>Please read and review and favourite to follow.<strong> Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Two

**Thank you so much for reviewing the previous chapter. I am glad you are enjoying this so far.**

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><p>Clarisse pulled her jacket closed, ran her fingers through her hair, pulled the edges of her jacket together again. She rubbed the nape of her neck – damp. Her hair would be curling. Then she stopped herself – she needed to calm down.<p>

"Charlotte," she said, and it almost sounded like a complaint, "It's so warm."

"The air conditioning is on full, Your Majesty," Charlotte answered and Clarisse knew that her tone had been a little sharp. She patted her assistant's arm kindly and Charlotte smiled.

Heat, combined with the imminent return of the crown princess, was making her very agitated. She had a terrible habit of taking it out on those around her too and since Joseph wasn't here, Charlotte was getting the brunt of it. She had had a fitful sleep the night before and had ended up throwing open the French doors, staring out into the moon, convinced that if she looked long enough the shadow of a jet would fly through it. She hated the thought of Mia flying. No such luck. She must have fallen asleep in the early hours which, for her, was always worse than getting no sleep at all. Three hours of sleep were just a tease rather than a good rest. She woke in the middle of a terrible nightmare, just as Olivia had come into her chamber.

"Charlotte, did you arrange for a few new items for Mia?"

"Yes," Charlotte nodded, "The department store are sending a selection over this afternoon. I am assured they are fashionable and 'cool' for summer."

"Poor you Charlotte," Clarisse laughed a little, "The last summer she was here, you must remember, those tiny shorts? Those aren't fashionable any more, I hope?"

Charlotte joined her in a laugh, "No, I made that explicit."

"Good!" Clarisse looked at her, "Do you know I actually had to confiscate those from her? Can you imagine! At 15 she would never have worn those."

"Well, I did add 'appropriate for a princess' in my directions, so we shall see what arrives," Charlotte said, seeming a little more relaxed.

"Sorry I have been a grouch all morning Charlotte," she turned to her, "I can sometimes be so very curt, usually when I am anxious. I know you know that but I do believe it's important to apologise."

"I understand Your Majesty."

"I know you do Charlotte," Clarisse patted her arm again, just as the double doors opened.

She liked her assistant a great deal and often felt that Charlotte, Joseph aside, was the only person in her life who had a genuine insight into how difficult she found it at times.

"Grandma!" The Princess came bounding in, nearly knocking Shades from his feet as he stepped forward. A rucksack dangled from one arm and a magazine from the other. Her hooded top and jeans were creased, her hair was tangled. She looked, in short, like a transatlantic mess.

"Amelia," she opened her arms to her granddaughter, then looked over her shoulder at Joseph and Lilly, who had followed behind, "There weren't any press at the airport, were there?"

He smirked a little, bowed in a rather cheeky fashion and said "No, Your Majesty."

"Hi Your Majesty," Lily embraced her in an awkward half-hug, "Thanks for having me."

Clarisse liked Lily and she liked the influence she had on her granddaughter too. She didn't necessarily hold all her libertarian beliefs, and where Clarisse was a traditionalist who had feminist tendencies, Lily hated all traditional beliefs with a zealous passion but, and this was the biggest thing she admired about her granddaughter's best friend, she had such strong conviction. She also had faith in humanity and an urgent desire to make change happen. Clarisse was quite happy to have her at the palace and in Mia's life. Plus, she had a dry humour that Clarisse rather liked.

"Not at all Lily," she answered genuinely, moving seamlessly back into the role of queen.

She took a moment for herself though to share a look with Joseph. He smiled, she smiled back and then it was gone as he broke apart to catch-up with Shades.

"Your schedule," she said to Mia, as Charlotte handed over the paper, "For the next few weeks. I don't want to hear a word of complaint."

Mia studied it for a moment, tipped it to the side, looked at it from an angle. She looked so like her father that Clarisse felt pain bloom in her chest and had to squeeze it down into her gut because, so many times when she looked at the girl, she was debilitated by it. Mia did what he did; tipping his head to the side when he was confused or unsure. She had first noticed it one spring in the garden when he was a toddler; he was playing with one of those peg toys. He was stumped by it, pudgy and soft, sitting on a tartan blanket under the massive oak tree. It took him a while, tipping his head from side to side. She had lay on the blanket beside him, while Pierre played on a trike nearby. It was beautiful and hard and sore to be a mother – it was even more difficult to be _their_ mother.

"Wait a minute -" Mia's face broke into a beautiful smile, "Grandma it says we're taking a vacation! And every Sunday is free?"

"It's a 'holiday' and yes, every Sunday is a day to do as you wish. We'll draw up a few suggestions. We leave tomorrow, don't we Joseph?" Clarisse brushed her granddaughter's hair behind her ear, "But first I want you to come and regale me with your last twelve weeks of school. Tea, in the garden, then you can pack for your holiday. Or vacation, as you insist on calling it."

Joseph caught her eye and smiled as she continued, "Go ahead Mia, go and get settled in and changed. I will see you in the garden in an hour Charlotte - you many have the afternoon to yourself to prepare for our trip. Lilly – you will join us too. Joseph - walk with me."

"Poor Joe! Grandma," Mia laughed, already climbing the stairs with Lily at her heels, "You never give him a break."

Aside from Shades, who seemed to be suspiciously busying himself with one of the computer monitors, they were now alone in the foyer. He brushed a hand over her arm, she touched his cheek as was their custom. He lifted her hand, kissed the back of it and then turning it, placed a kiss on the pulse of her wrist.

"I didn't sleep. I…missed you both," she whispered.

Despite her desire not to say what she wanted to say she was compelled to say it in as plain terms as she could manage – yet they weren't plain at all. She was so unbearably glad to see him that she had wanted to fall into his arms. She didn't of course, she couldn't.

"I know," he offered her his arm, "You don't ever give me a break apparently."

"She's so dramatic," she laughed, shrugging off her jacket as they walked towards her suite.

"Why don't you change? You have time and that suit looks very heavy."

"This coming from the man who wears black all the time," she turned to him, a smile on her face.

"Clarisse," they were entirely alone now, though just ahead there was a set of footmen guarding her doors, "I know you think I'm rather handsome in black."

"I think you're rather handsome full stop," she leaned towards him, her voice low and conspiratorial, and was pleased when she drew that delicious half-smile from him. It was both a smirk and a frown and it was very attractive.

She admired his blasé, casual approach when they were like this. He was so much more comfortable with their blooming relationship than she was. She knew the staff turned their heads, averted their eyes and yet it still made her uncomfortable. Joseph, however, nodded casually to the footmen who held her door open and followed her into her cool suite as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She both admired him and was jealous of his ability to be so composed. She wanted to tell him that but she knew how absurd it sounded just in her head.

"I want to nap," she might as well say it, "I didn't sleep well last night."

She smiled at him but she knew it was shy. She scolded herself but he reached out to touch her cheek, to reassure her that it was okay to admit a weakness. She stared into his eyes, kissed the pad of his thumb that he ran across her lips. Then she moved away, pulling out her earrings as she did so.

"And I'm assuming you think I need a nap as well," he asked, already kicking off his shoes while he pulled his tie apart.

"Don't tease me," she murmured, leaving her shoes beside his and, pulling her shirt from the waistband of her pencil skirt, walked towards her bedroom, "You can debrief me in here."

He laughed as he followed her into the cool darkness of the room and she was pleased she had made him laugh because it broke the tension a little. Or, she thought to herself, you're making a tension that doesn't exist.

She lay down on her side, as was her custom, and he was behind her. Suddenly everything seemed to have tilted back onto its ordinary axis. She felt so much safer. He smelled faintly of sweat, underneath leather and cologne. She wondered if he'd had any sleep on the plane.

"You'd be comfier with your shirt off," he murmured, kissing her neck, his hand underneath her blouse and making small circles on her abdomen. He pressed into her and already she was drifting.

"You'd probably be comfier on the couch in that case," she laughed a little, tempted to give into his request anyway, "But nice try sir."

"God loves a trier," he yawned, reaching down to pull his socks off and throw them down onto the floor, "I hate sleeping with socks on."

"I missed you," he said softly, after a moment's silence.

"I missed you too," she answered, "Can you set an alarm?"

"Is that all I am to you woman, a time-keeper?"

He tickled her hip lightly, making it clear he was teasing. Then he sat up, pulled his cell-phone from his pocket and set the alarm. He readjusted then, pulling her round so she rested against his chest.

"Yes," she smiled, "A very good-looking time keeper."

"Pierre's joining us," he muttered and she could tell he was nearly asleep. She felt guilty suddenly; he had obviously not rested and yet he had made sure her son was able to join them for a few days. He never stopped thinking about her or how to make life a little more palatable for her and, by extension of that, for them as a couple.

She looked up at his face, traced her finger across his jaw and the rough stubble there. He looked older when he was tired. She looked older when she was tired too. God, they were getting old. They were too old to be doing this; stealing moments to sleep, to speak, to call each other 'darling' with no concern.

When had her friend become her lover and when had her lover become the man she couldn't live without?

"You're tired my love," she whispered, sure that if she kept her voice low it made it less dangerous.

"Exhausted Clarisse," he answered, "Now you promised me a nap."

"I know," she closed her eyes, desperate for something that was just out of her grasp, "I will be quiet now."

But he was already asleep.

She thought of the beach house and felt the sand under her toes and between her fingers. Expensive wines and traditional cooking. Dances on a jetty, hidden from the eyes of the world. And then her boy, her beautiful boy, dancing along the sand – she couldn't see his face any more, no matter how hard she tried. It was more painful than anything she'd ever felt. She turned her face into his black shirt and let tears fall.

-0-

The palace was in the quiet throes of the evening, no functions or dinners. He pulled his car up at the garages at the back, sandwiched in between a limo and Mia's ridiculous Mustang. He'd need to ask the mechanic to look at it because it was making a very odd noise – though it had just driven him all the way from Rome, through Spain, and into his country. It had changed in recent years; he had become a patriot since he had resigned the throne, where he had never been before.

It always smelled the same in summer; roses sweet in the heat, dry grass, the smell of bread from the kitchens, the faint smell of oil from the garages, the hot smell of horses in the stables. He slung his hold-all over his shoulder, pulled his collar from his shirt, dropped it onto the front seat of the car, and closed the door behind him.

He took his time strolling towards the kitchens (he had always preferred coming into the palace through the kitchens, rather than the doors on the stairs or the terrace). The gravel crunched under his foot and he thought of the miles of sand on the beach at the house – driftwood and picnics, messing about in the surf, his first ever glass of wine. Spending all night speaking with Philipe; first about games and books and being older, then about girls and school, then nothing at all as their worlds spun apart. He promised himself he would visit the nursery and the double room they had shared before they left for the beach house, otherwise he wouldn't get the chance.

"Hey Claude," he smiled at the old resident baker, frightened he would startle him if he just stole his way into the bowels of the palace.

"Prince Pierre!"

He didn't have the heart to correct him on the two fronts; _I'm no longer a Prince, in fact, people call me Father now._

"Is that for my maman?" He spotted the silver tray, complete with steaming tea pot, on the large table that occupied the middle of the kitchen. And a cup of coffee, of course.

"Yes," Olivia turned to him with a little curtsey, "It is sir."

"I'll take it to her," he slung his bag further round his shoulder.

"No sir, really, it's ok. Do you want me call for the butler, to get you settled in?"

He'd already scooped up the tray and was half way out the door, "No, I don't need the butler. I'll take this to my mother. Have a nice evening."

He took the route through the ballroom, not because it was the quickest, but because nostalgia forced him to. He wondered if it was like this for children all over the world; if, whether they'd grown up in a palace or a shack, they still felt this kind of comforting happiness and still felt the need to take the stairs two at a time. It was hard with a tray and his rucksack though, so he stopped after a few stairs.

"Oh!" He heard heels and a voice behind him, "Sir?"

He turned and found Olivia behind him, carrying a six-pack of Coke.

"I forgot this," she explained, "It's for the princess and miss Lily – the queen's letting her have it because it's her 'vacation'."

He held the tray out, so she could balance it between the cups and the tea. God, his mother was softening.

"And," she looked at her shoes, "I forgot to tell you, but they're in the film room."

"Oh, thanks," he followed her down the stairs, "Don't worry, Olivia – it's late."

She smiled and headed in the other direction.

The film room was to the left of the ballroom, and had been installed on the whim of his father. He had watched old westerns with his father there and manly, gun toting military films with Joe and his brother. He'd watched the Berlin wall falling down and the coming together of Europe – he was still meant to be King then – in that film room. They weren't watching a film though on this occasion. Instead they were all intently watching Mia as she played one of those interactive consoles with Lilly. At this point, her and and Lilly were playing Tennis against each other.

"We have a perfectly good tennis court in the garden," he said loudly, causing his mother to jump in her chair.

She smiled at him, standing up and coming towards him. Joseph followed and took the tray from him, setting it down just as his mother embraced him.

"Hello my darling," she held him at arm's length, "You look tired. How was your drive? Joseph didn't tell me you were driving until an hour ago! Otherwise-"

"Otherwise what? You'd have made him come and get me? I'm a big boy mama, and I had a good driving instructor," he was not content to shake Joe's hand, so pulled him into a hug, "Though I do have a terrible habit of driving a little faster than I should. Can I take the Jag out while I'm here?"

Joe nodded and laughed, "Of course you can and I don't drive too fast."

"How are you Pierre?" Joe smiled at him, held him at arm's length much as his mother had done.

"Thin, I'm sure mama will say," he turned to his niece. She had gotten taller since he had saw her at Christmas which the third time he'd really met her properly. She looked so like his brother that he was taken aback by it. Pain, which was cold and sharp, shot into his chest. He begged God; _take this away._

"Hello Amelia," he smiled and kissed her cheek, "How are you?"

"I'm good," she said, but he knew she was awkward, "Want to play tennis?"

She held out one of the controllers – was this a twenty-first century olive branch? - he took it anyway.

"Sure."

"Not much longer please," his mother touched his elbow as she settled back on the couch beside Joseph, "We have an early start in the morning."

"Grandma," Mia turned her head, missing the start of the game and causing Lily to cry out, "We're on _holiday_. Chill-out!"

He laughed at his mother's face and was also bemused by her lack of reaction which totaled a roll of the eyes and a little laugh. She really was relaxing.

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><p>Please read and review.<p> 


	3. Three

**Thank you very much for reviewing the last 2 chapters and for following this story. **

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><p>Predictably enough, the only people who were ready to leave on time were him and Shades. Everyone else was rushing about; Mia had slept in (as had Lily), Pierre had decided to take a wander around and Charlotte was busily hustling the queen to get ready and to finish as much of her work as possible. So he found himself sitting on the tail of the mini-van, his feet propped on one of Clarisse's ludicrously expensive monogrammed suitcases, eating an orange from the garden and arguing with Shades over the latest controversy in La Liga. He'd packed the cars, said good morning to her, checked the papers and news reports, briefed Anton on his duties around the palace, eaten a quick breakfast - again with her - and sorted out the rotas for the next week all before 9 am. His Jaguar, black and glorious in the sun, was parked in front. He rarely had the chance to drive it, the second most important machine in his life after his watch, and was jumping at the opportunity to drive her down the coast line.<p>

"I love that car," he said absently to Shades.

"I know," his second-in-command laughed disparagingly, "You talk about it quite a lot."

"Not 'it' but 'her' please, have some respect for her," he said dryly.

"I hope," her voice rang from behind them, "You're not talking about me."

They both stood up and he couldn't help but smile. She was, as always, dressed impeccably. He hadn't really appreciated the power of a well-dressed woman until he had known her. He had certainly appreciated lingerie through the years but not necessarily clothes. He now appreciated both fully – particularly when they involved her.

"Your Majesty, Your Highness," he bowed, catching her smile and he was relieved that she was joking. She was followed by Charlotte, Mia and Lily who had also got the memorandum and were casually dressed for a week at the beach. Lily and Mia were sharing earphones again, a look of intense concentration on their faces.

It must be an interesting part; he had known from the moment they got on the plane that they were not listening to music. He cringed at the very thought.

"Not about Your Majesty," he motioned to the Jaguar, "But about my car."

"Of course," she turned to Charlotte, "Where is Pierre?"

"I'm here!"

Pierre came running down the stairs – two at a time. He nearly gave him a row, nearly said to calm down, but he had reached the bottom just as Joseph realised that wasn't appropriate.

"Where have you been?" Clarisse was half-scolding, half-amused by his persistent habit of being late, Joseph could see. The irony in that was that he took this trait directly from his mother, who was not known for her punctuality. Her son shook his head.

"I was reminiscing," he answered vaguely, kissing her cheek.

Joseph smelled dust as he brushed past him and knew exactly where he'd been. He decided to keep any question or revelation to himself though, instead slipping his glasses on.

"Are you taking your car Joe?" Pierre asked, running his hand over the sleek exterior.

"We are," he answered, a little pride flourishing at the love he had fostered in the young prince in regards to auto-mobiles, "You're welcome to join us."

"Thanks," Pierre said suddenly, "But I'll jump in the mini-van."

Joseph found that odd for a moment but then realised what Pierre was avoiding. Luckily, Clarisse hadn't heard or, if she had, she was choosing not to read the implication. It was easier to pretend there was nothing between them. It was always easier to pretend, even between themselves sometimes.

"Here's what we're going to do; the usual, essentially, but I'll go through it nonethless. Shades you will be with Her Highness and I will accompany Her Majesty in the Jaguar. Feel free to choose the car you want to ride in but there are only five seats in the car. Seven in the van. Shades, I'll lead and you'll follow. No stops unless we agree to it, or if there is an emergency of some sort."

Shades already knew all of this. He also knew to plug his cell in and keep his mic on. The reason he went over it all was for the benefit of the queen, who needed to know everything in order to feel that she was fully in the loop.

"Jaguar!" Lily and Mia chimed together and he would have sworn that Clarisse actually slumped with disappointment for a moment.

"Hey!" Pierre stepped in, "I thought you were meant to be getting to know me on this trip?"

Joseph was surprised, and a little touched, by her son's intervention.

Mia smiled a little – the placating smile of a well-meaning teenager – and shrugged her shoulders; "I suppose so. Only though, if Joe promises to spend one Sunday driving me about in it?"

He turned to Clarisse and was pleased to see she had somewhat regained her composure, "Only if Her Majesty permits?"

"By all means," she said coolly, "Shall we? I'm beginning to melt in this sun."

He wasted no time in holding the car door open for her, watching momentarily as Shades loaded the last of the luggage into the mini-van and slammed the boot shut. He slipped in beside her.

"Air conditioning?"

"Yes please Joseph," she fiddled with the electric controls of the seat, puffing out a little surprise of air as the seat moved back a little, allowing her to stretch out her long legs.

"Seatbelt please darling," he requested.

"Are you joking?" She questioned, pulling it across her body anyway.

He watched as she unfolded in front of him, her face smoothing out in relaxation. As she relaxed her shoulders sloped down a little more, her fingers fiddled with the scarf around her neck in a sort of comforting fashion, her ankles crossed.

He reached for the music player, pressing down on the play button, well aware that the van behind him was waiting for the flick of his hand that meant they could go. He waited for the opening bars of music before he stuck his hand up between the gap in the seats and turned the ignition.

"Really Joseph?" She murmured, "Really?"

"Driving music," he laughed over the rock music, taking his hand from the gear and placing it on her leg, "It is my car, Your Majesty."

"But you like classical," she whined, belaying her rather sweet grumble with her hand over his, squeezing his fingers.

"My car, sweetheart," he stole a look at her, "My rules. I don't drive as well to Tchaikovsky."

"My roads," she slid further down into the seat, inadvertently meaning his hand moved further up her thigh, "Darling."

"You play the queen card now?" He upped a gear, noting she gripped the side of her seat a little.

"Pierre is right," she murmured, "You do drive too fast."

"At least I don't do other things too fast," he laughed.

He enjoyed the blush that climbed up from her chest onto her throat. He loved that she let him do that to her now, that she blushed for him. It had taken her years to even do that in front of him. She was very good at suppressing everything which was both a trait he loved and found frustrating.

"Well, you do have that on your side," she looked out the window as the car sped past, "I'd love to do this more – risk my life in a ridiculously over-priced vehicle with you."

"One day you'll let me take you on my motor bike," he said softly.

"Dream on Joseph."

She reached out her hand and he had to resist flinching, out of surprise, when it rested on his leg. She gave a little squeeze – her nails digging through the denim of his jeans and into the hard muscles of his thigh. No matter how long she had allowed herself to place her hands on him (because it was she who allowed it) she managed to render him speechless every time she did; he'd never quite allowed himself to believe it. Even the slightest touch was synthesised.

He swallowed and regained his composure.

"My dreams," he guided the car expertly round a tight bend, driving them free of the city, "Have a tendency to come true."

"You're so smooth," she complimented, "I've never met a man so smooth. Well-bred, and at times charming yes, but never so smooth."

"Well thank you Clarisse," he smiled at her, "Years of practice."

"It has paid off," she smiled, in between humming along to the song coming from the speakers.

"See? You know this song," he said.

She shook her head and he could see she was fighting a smile.

"Do you know why I hate pop music?"

"This isn't pop music my dear but please, continue..." he answered.

"Just listen to it," she continued, "It sounds pleasant enough – upbeat and happy - but if you really listen to the lyrics, it's rather dark. I don't like that at all because it is tricking you into it and that is the case with the most of these songs. With Moonlight Sonata, I know what I'm getting."

He never underestimated her cleverness but he often forgot that she was as thoughtful as this. She rarely shared silly, philosophical musings like other people. She simply didn't have the time.

"Ha! I suppose. Still it's entertaining enough," he lifted her hand and kissed it.

"You're really taking advantage of this time together," she watched him.

"Do you blame me?"

"No. If I am honest I rather like it," she answered, "As long as I can force myself to stop being anxious."

He stole a look at her. He could tell she was tense again and he was annoyed at himself for leading the conversation down this path. He had wanted this to be as simple and uncomplicated as it possibly could be and yet it had become a serious conversation.

"What is there to be anxious about my darling? A week at the beach, some glorious cooking, time with your family."

"And with you," she tilted her head to the side, obviously having pushed her anxiety to the side, "Don't forget that."

They fell into silence then and he switched the music for her, concentrating instead on enjoying the drive and the handling of the car. She lowered herself down and stretched out her legs, cat-like, and closed her eyes as the coast line road came into view. He wound down onto the road, parallel with more popular beaches of Genovia and the tourist towns, and sped up. It might be a working holiday, he thought to himself, but it had been a long time since she'd fallen asleep in a car. Perhaps he'd achieved his goal after all.

-0-

Mia watched as the crowds thinned out and miles of coastline became less populated – less ice-cream vendors, fewer people splayed like starfishes or bobbing in the waves. The patches of people had worn away, leaving beautiful white sand and crashing waves. She had been surprised to see the busyness of it although she knew the popular seaside town of Mertz was a favourite destination of Genovians, and Spaniards and French from across the borders.

She could feel her uncle watching her as she watched the beaches and towns go by.

"It's a beautiful place, isn't it?"

"Yes," she turned to him, "It is really gorgeous. Post-card stuff. San Fran is a little rougher."

"I never left this country for anything, other than official tours and visit, until I went to boarding school," he said, "I love it here. You have everything you need; mountain rages to the north, sun and beaches in the south."

She smiled at him, "Do you like living in Rome?"

"It has its moments," he answered, a look of seriousness slipping onto his face, "It can be lonely at times and you belong to other people. It's funny; I gave up being one kind of leader to be another and never thought I was doing so. I had a calling and I couldn't ignore it but I never thought of the implications. "

"Yeah," she didn't really know what to say.

He was quite a serious person, and because he was in the Church, she had this sort of awkwardness around him that frightened her. Would he judge her? Did he think she was immature? She was probably being a little unfair but it was difficult to talk to him; he was quietly reserved and he spoke in quiet, liquid prose that flowed from one deep revelation to another.

"Want to play eye-spy?"

She laughed a little, squinted at him in confusion, "Really?"

"Yes. I'm a priest, not an alien. Let's face it; that's what you think. I don't blame you," he laughed a little, "I want to know you for one reason; that reason being you're my brother's daughter. You're going to have to see past the collar. That's why I left it in my car."

She knew she was blushing; "I'm sorry."

"Ha! It's fine. Right; eye-spy..."

The journey passed quickly after that and soon they were pulling up to a massive, white wash house. It looked like the houses in the Hamptons that she'd seen on those tacky TV shows and, like those houses, it was hidden behind a massive iron gate that closed slowly behind them and closed them off from the world. Behind it she could hear the sea rolling, and to the side, a sign that said 'private beach. No trespassing'. Of course, they were the royal family, there were no other beaches available to them, All in all, the kind of house she expected her grandmother to own. A little imposing, perfectly formed, white and cotton.

She watched as Joseph pulled the Jaguar up beside the mini-van and, always one to muck in because she often felt sorry for the staff, helped her uncle Pierre and Lily to grab the bags.

"May I have the keys please Joseph?" Her grandmother requested and Mia found that odd. Then, she supposed, her grandma must know how to use a key.

Joe fished in his pocket, pulled out a small set of keys, and followed behind her with the luggage.

Inside it was surprisingly cool, but light, and she was overwhelmed the by freshness of it all. It was so different from the palace; a large sitting room with spongy, soft couches and piles of board games and a wood burner. An oak kitchen with a massive table that was worn and battered, and the entire back wall of the kitchen was just French doors that led out onto a terrace and onto the white sand of the beach.

She had never fallen in love with a house before but she had now and she was sure that this was a sign of getting old. She frowned a little.

"Excuse me," her uncle cut away from the group at the bottom of the stairs and began climbing them, "I'm taking my old room. It's two singles; Shades?"

"Sure," Shades shrugged and Mia had to remind herself that the Royal Family aside, the other three adults were here to work.

She knew that Shades and Pierre were going to end up friends, simply because they were odd outsiders, just on the fringes of this bizarre mix of people who were holidaying together. For the first time on this trip Mia thought how odd the group was – a group that would never have come together in any other normal circumstance.

"Grandma, why didn't we come here before?" She followed her grandma up the stairs, Lily behind them, and Joe in front, "I mean, I know you have the winter castle but this is awesome..."

"It's not mine," she answered simply, as they came to a stop on a broad landing, "It's a friend's."

"Oh, who?"

"Mine," Joseph said casually, brushing past them and throwing open a white door on the left of the corridor, "Miss Lily and princess; your accommodation for the week."

"Shut up! This is not your house. It's so not Joe. I've not seen any black anywhere."

"Mia," her grandma pulled her scarf from her neck and leaned against the wall, "Don't tell people to shut up."

"Sorry grandma," she smiled sheepishly and cringed at the disappointment on her grandmother's face. She really had to stop telling people to 'shut up' but it was a habit that she couldn't shake. She hated to disappoint her grandma and no matter how many times she did so, she was humiliated afresh. It never got any easier.

Mia followed Lily in, hauling her bag behind her, as Joe held the door to their room open ceremoniously.

"I'll be in the attic Joseph," she heard her grandma say, and heard her expensive heels clacking along the wooden floors and up the other flight of stairs.

She would have sworn that the more expensive the heel, the more authoritative the clack. A very authoritative clack came from her grandmother's designer shoes.

Joe popped his head round the door, "Get settled in."

"There's attic rooms? I love attic rooms," Mia grumbled, though she had already settled herself on the bed that was under the window.

"Your grandmother prefers it. It's quieter and it means she can get her work done," Joe informed her, in that voice that told her it was not acceptable to argue.

"Ok," she felt chastised enough and she knew that Joe told her these things so she didn't look like a total fool, "Cool. She needs a break."

"She does," he nodded, "You're getting very astute."

She was pleased, and relieved, that she had impressed him at least. He was always a buffer to offer kindness and advice and a quiet word in her grandmother's ear.

Just before he closed the door he smiled and whispered, "Don't tell your grandma but this house has internet. So you can download more of your stories. And please, stop lying about listening to music..."

She looked at Lily and burst out laughing. She wasn't even embarrassed and, in fact, she thought it was rather funny that Joe knew.

"He just gets everything," Lily commented, pulling her case onto the bed and beginning to, as Lily always did, scatter her belongings all over, "Doesn't he?"

"Yeah. It can be quite creepy at times, in a sort-of 'I like to have him around' way," she laughed, "It's weird. He knows everything. He totally has my grandma's back all the time though."

"Yeah," Lily turned to her, "But he has your back even more. I mean, he always sticks up for you. And he makes sure you're looked after. He's close to your grandma, huh?"

She looked at Lily, "Yeah, he is."

"Yeah."

The silence grew a little and then Lily plopped down beside her on the bed.

"Chapter eleven?"

"Oh, yeah!"

She didn't even consider what Lily had meant. She popped her earphone in and cracked open her last, smuggled, can of Coke.

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><p><strong>Please read and review. <strong>


	4. Four

**Thank you for reviewing and reading the previous chapter. I am glad you're enjoying this. Please continue to read and review! **

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><p>She left her handbag on the chair by the door and moved towards the dresser. It was bare, painted white, the only dresser in the entire house she imagined. She always told him, before he organised any trip, that a dresser was essential in any hotel room – he was so good at giving her little messages, telling her things, without saying one word. The first summer he'd offered her and the boys the use of this house, he'd run out to a flee market and picked this dresser up, brought it back in that ridiculous military pick up he drove about when he wasn't driving one of the retainer cars. She had hated that pick-up. It was so rough and wild looking, parked beside the limos and Bentleys that the family used.<p>

He'd repainted the dresser though, and it had driven from it that old, cheap charm that she had loved when he had first bought it.

She pulled open the drawer on the left. A bottle of Chanel No. 5 – ribbon wrapped.

She quickly shut it again, embarrassed to have found it, as if it wasn't intended for her. Of course it was. A personal little gift.

She sat on the edge of the bed and listened closely. She let her eyes slide closed; the muffled sound of the other people around her unpacking, drawers opening and closing, suitcases being stored away. The crash of waves on the surf and then nothing more. She fell back, gathered up the soft cotton of the sheets under her hands and made a point of concentrating on the feel of them for fear of emotions overwhelming her.

"You're very beautiful."

She startled, her eyes shooting open as she twisted her head. He closed the door behind him. She held her hand out to him, beckoning him towards her. She needed him to hold her right now and she wanted to show him that.

He lay down beside her silently. Knowing exactly what she needed, he folded his arm over abdomen, kicked off his shoes, and pulled her nearer to him. It was a little awkward, not exactly comfortable, but it didn't matter.

"Thank you for the perfume."

He kissed her cheek by way of response.

"You re-decorated," she said at length, after the noise of everyone settling in had finally died. They must have lay like that for thirty minutes – exchanging nothing but a few glances, listening to the noises of the world and their past. He stroked her hair and she examined their hands as they lay clasped on her abdomen.

"It was time," he answered.

She wanted to make love to him then.

She heard them though– footsteps, her granddaughter's baseball boots, on the stairs. He heard it too and moved away from her, giving her time to straighten herself, and the sheets, out. He sat on the seat at the door and managed to make himself look busy, examining his cell phone in a convincingly important way. If she'd been in a jocular mood, she might have commented on how easily he appeared to lie.

The knock on the door came in due time and, breezy as ever, Clarisse pulled open the door.

Amelia came in, looked around; "Yeah, you got the best room," she smiled at Joseph, cuffed him on the shoulder, and sat on the edge of the bed, "Some things never change. Who has the other attic room? You Joe?"

Sometimes, in a devious way, Clarisse was grateful of Amelia's endearing naivety. She question nothing unless prompted. Not the best trait in a monarch though. She hoped, and didn't hope, that she would grow out of it.

"This is my house," he teased her, "And that is my room."

"How come you never come here? You stay at the Palace all the time." She crossed her legs on the bed, her filthy shoes on the sheets.

"Mia, my darling," Clarisse sat down beside her, reached out and stroked her hair, "Would you please take your shoes off of my sheets?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry grandma," the girl said and popped her feet back onto the floor, "Anyway, I came up to ask if we can go exploring. I thought it'd be okay. Shades will come with us obviously Joe, and uncle Pierre. So can we grandma? And if you don't mind, Charlotte could come too. No reason to work hard. You can come too, obviously. Didn't know if it was your thing but..."

She looked at that beautifully expectant face and saw no reason to refuse, particularly because she felt very, very safe here and knew Mia was safe here too.

"Of course," she smiled, "Of course darling. Just be safe and don't climb and if Charlotte desires to go, she may."

"Sure!" Mia enveloped her in a clumsy hug and rushed out of the door.

"Chess?" He looked up as soon as Mia had left, slipping his phone back in his pocket and giving her a devious smile, "No reception out here."

"The horror! You looked very busy," she went towards the door, "Black or white?"

"Why don't you guess?" He reached out for her hand though, stopping her going any further.

"I love you," he said to her, and the genuine tone of everything from his body language to his eyes to the set of his shoulders was unbearably honest. She loved him more than anything in that moment.

"I love you too Joseph," she touched her hand to his cheek, "I love you so very much."

"Black," he laughed softly, "I want black."

"I know dear," she answered dryly as they descended the stairs.

-0-

He was willing to wager that his mother had insisted Mia didn't climb but, Charlotte aside, they all sat at the top of a steep rocky wall – they had been able to walk up it slowly, because he had walked it so many times he was able to warn them, but the descent was a little steeper and trickier. He had been impressed by Mia's climbing skills and had laughed when she told him she rock-climbed for fun. From the top of the cliff the sea was vast and endless – to the right of them there was the house, glowing against the setting sun and to their left there was just miles of beach, though only until the little alcove of rocks, which shielded them from the world, counted as the private beach which belonged to the house. On the other side of the alcove was the rest of the world.

"We should get back," he said to the group after a while, waving to Charlotte at the bottom to let her know they'd be coming back down, "Aren't you hungry? Joe will get annoyed if we're not back for dinner."

"Yeah," Shades grumbled, "I hate heights."

He laughed and turned to him, "Really?"

"Yeah," he shuddered, "Don't tell the boss."

"Ha! Which one?" Mia joined in, already standing and stretching.

"Both, please," Shades answered and turned to him, "I'd offer to lead the way but..."

"Of course."

He watched Mia as they descended, her best friend at her back, and was suddenly very pleased that he'd made the effort to come. He had watched her as she'd sat atop the rock and realised she was far cleverer, far more astute, than he'd given her credit for.

"Uncle Pierre," she jogged back towards him as they came onto even ground, their shoes meeting the sand again, "Isn't the sunset amazing?"

"Yes," he smiled, "You're like me; you like the simple things?"

"Yeah," she nodded, sharing a rather glorious smile with him, "As long as there is internet nearby."

He laughed, "You'll love it here then because I know that Joe will have had internet installed, right?"

"Right," she bent down and picked up a bit of driftwood, examined it as she ran her fingers across it.

"I know she gives you a hard time," he blurted out, aware that it seemed a little contrived offering her advice when he barely knew her, "But it's for your own good."

She laughed a little, "You sound like Joe."

"Do I?" He feigned offence, "I must be getting old."

"Yeah, you must be," she laughed, "I know that you're right. We're similar people really, that's the problem. Don't get me wrong – I am nowhere near as self-contained or posh but we're both quite stubborn and we're both really determined too. Really stubborn, so we don't always see eye-to- eye but I know, I know she loves me and I know she does it for my own good."

"You think she's self-contained?" He asked, genuinely curious.

She appeared to have an impression of his mother that he understood but didn't really agree with. He could see Mia was thinking hard about why she thought that. He looked ahead to make sure Charlotte, Shades and Lily were still near but not within earshot. The lights in the house shone ahead, the doors were open, and he could just make out the outline of Joe in front of the stove.

"She's always so 'together'. She never loses it," she explained, "I've never saw her flip out or cry or shout. Even when she gives me a row she's calm. She delivers every criticism in this really calm, cool way. It's menacing."

She wrapped her arm through his, their strides uneven as they trundled over the sand.

"I suppose," he answered, "I don't know that it's really about her being self-contained, to use your rather American phrase. I think it's about suppression. She works really hard to act calm."

"Well," Mia laughed a little as he pulled her up over a sand-dune, "I need to learn that. She's so good at being calm."

He looked at her as she pulled herself up, her hair flying about on the breeze from the sea, her face flushed. She was only a young girl, just eighteen. What was her life going to be like? Intense, he thought to himself, her life will be intense. Silence lay over them then, and he could see she was thinking about their conversation.

"Have you ever tried Joe's paella before?" He asked, in order to drag her from her thoughts.

He wanted this to be a break for her too and he didn't want her to feel like he was making her question things.

"I've never tried paella before," she answered, "My favourite meal is a Big Mac."

"That's terrible," he shook his head, "That's not even food."

She laughed, "I'm an all American junk-eating, Coke guzzling princess."

"Yeah," he agreed, kicking his shoes on the stairs and leaving them at the bottom. He watched her watch him and then she followed suit. All of them lined their shoes up at the foot of the wooden stairs of the terrace, even Shades took off his boots.

"You're late," Joe opened the door for them and the smell of the rich fare was strong, the heat a little stronger. His mother sat at the table, buttering fresh bread of all things. Her face was flushed from the heat.

"Mia, can you peel these?" Joe held out a bowl of wide eyed, recently dead prawns.

"Ewww! No," she laughed, "That's gross!"

He smiled and laughed, throwing the prawns onto the counter top, "Ok, help Lily set out the cutlery," he continued as he motioned to the massive table.

Pierre settled down at the table while Mia and Lily set it and laughed because Mia will still managing to confuse her left and right. Darkness had fallen now but the lights from the house illuminated the surf and the waves had gathered pace, wrapping themselves around the jetty that led out to sea and at which the boat was moored.

He turned to Shades, who had somehow been tasked with peeling the prawns, "Do you like it here Scott?"

"Yes sir," he answered, wrestling with a rather stubborn tail.

Pierre sighed; no matter the fact that he was no longer titled or landed, people still did not call him his name; "I've told you Shades, I'm not 'sir' - simply Pierre. I really-"

"I know Shades," Mia interrupted, leaning over the security guard's shoulder to set a fork beside him, "You wouldn't believe how many times I've asked him not to address me as princess and yet he still does."

Pierre gave his niece a consoling smile because that was going to be the case for the rest of her life - she just hadn't realised it yet.

"Please," he continued, "Call me Pierre."

At that moment his mother, her faced flushed from the heat of the kitchen, placed an overflowing basket of bread in the centre. Joe fed everyone like they were Spanish and made with hollow legs and the overflowing bread was a perfect example of that habit.

"Well Scott," she laughed a little and Pierre turned to watch Joseph as he watched her, "I just can't bring myself to ask you to call me Clarisse, unlike the younger members of my family. So Your Majesty is absolutely fine with me."

Shades laughed along with everyone else as she rearranged the basket to suit her. It amazed Pierre that his mother could joke about her snobbery and isolation and still appear to be rather funny. He had always found her to be dryly humorous in a way that was always disparaging to herself. It was a sort of half-humour, picking fun at the truth.

"Pierre," Joe took the bowl of prawns from Shades, the last to go into the pan, "We need wine."

"Really?"

He would have been lying to say he wasn't partly amused by Joe's request. Joe smiled at him in his immutable way and he could picture himself, a gangling and awkward ten year old, tasked with the job of choosing the best wine for their dinner table that night.

"To be fair," his mother turned to him from where she was cutting tomatoes for the salad, "You are the expert."

Joe nodded in agreement. Pierre was concentrating on them, unlike the rest of the people around the table. Lily and Mia were busy arguing over which side the wine glass should go on - he was going to tell them it was the right but he didn't - and Shades and Charlotte were in conference over an email that had just pinged through to Charlotte's palm-computer. He rather wished she'd put that thing down actually. Joe had managed to switch off and for that very reason, it appeared that Charlotte and Shades had gone into over-drive in terms of professionalism. He knew it was more of a working holiday for them but he at least expected them to slow down a little.

He had never witnessed his mother anywhere near a stove other than when she was here, at this house. She didn't cook, not exactly, but she had never been above helping Joe prepare their meals. It seemed she took great pleasure in the simplicity of the task.

"You're not doing it right," Joe corrected her quietly as she began mixing the salad rather gingerly, "You have to be willing, pardon my expression, to get your hands dirty."

She had a laugh that Pierre only every heard her use with Joseph and she used it now. It came from the depths of her throat at his statement, thick with innuendo. It was a genuine, full laugh that didn't really suit her but fitted her perfectly at the same time. Joe glowed with pleasure at having drawn it from her. They knew how to be with each other in the middle of a crowded room and Pierre admired it. He knew they were together and he honestly didn't mind. He just wished they'd say to him so he could offer his blessing. Blessing to what though? An illicit relationship doomed to the shadows? The very thought made him unhappy.

"Well," she muttered, passing the bowl to him, her hands slick with olive oil that she wiped on the dish towel that she lifted from Joe's shoulder, "That is your job, my darling."

She had slipped up and for a moment he could see she was startled. Joe turned and smiled at her reassuringly - a smile that said no one heard.

And they hadn't, apart from Pierre himself.

"Pierre," Joe looked at him, reaching over to put the salad beside the bread, "That wine won't fetch itself."

He had been so absorbed watching these two people that he had forgotten the pressing task he'd been set.

"Right, of course," he went to the sink and opened the cupboard under it, "Where's the torch?"

"Oh, it's been fitted with a light," Joe answered, "Top of the stairs."

He was a little disappointed with that information; it was more fun to go hunting in the dark.

"What has?"

Mia and Lily had finally decided the glass went on the left and no one, not even his mother it seemed, had the heart to correct them.

"The cellar. I'm going to get some wine."

"Can I come?" His niece stood up and smiled hopefully.

He was beginning to think his chat on the beach with her had broken some invisible barrier. He was willing to bet she'd started to view him as a human that just happened to be in a rather alien role in life.

"Of course," he led the way.

He felt along the wall for a light at the top of the stairs and was disappointed when his hand encountered the switch because it just represented the ceaseless march of change across his life.

They descended the wooden stairs, their shoes making footprints in the dust.

"This was my job when we came here," he explained, desperate to make himself, and his mother, sound like a human. He ran his fingers over the bottles. Some were thick with dust, so much so you could not read the label. Other, newer bottles, were more discernible.

"Really?"

Mia was wandering about the perimeter of the room, touching tools and old canvas sheets and dragging her fingers along the rough brick walls.

"Yes," he bent down and methodically began reading and checking each bottle. Surprisingly for Joe there was no recognisable order to the set-up. It was just a pick and mix of possibilities.

"I was always wanting a job. A task of some sort to make me feel like I was helping," he continued, "The first time we all came here, mama and my brother and Joseph and my papa-"

Mia turned at this and while trying, she didn't do a good job of disguising the surprise on her face. She hadn't thought of his father as part of this, he imagined. Rupert was a fringe character now for everyone but him and his mother and Joe and those subjects that weren't fickle enough to forget him. His loving, flawed, funny, philandering father. Just to think of him was to smell cigars and the hot ink from newspapers. His parents had loved each other, in an arranged sort of way that fitted their marriage. He had always felt so very sorry for them to have missed out on something not arranged and passionate and meaningful. But he had loved them as parents – regardless of their flaws.

"Well, I was bored and Joe sent me down here for a bottle of wine. It was October, and it wasn't as warm as it is now, so he was cooking some hearty beef," he finally found the bottle he was looking for and withdrew it from the rack with a feeling of satisfaction, "I picked a white because I knew my mama loved a white. They didn't correct me-"

"Even I know you don't have white with beef," Mia laughed.

"I know but that was beside the point. They were pleased with me and praised me. It made a task worth doing. I spent every time in between coming here reading and learning about wine because it was my responsibility," he knew his reminiscing sounded crazy but she couldn't, as someone who hadn't grown up being waited on hand and foot and treated like porcelain, know what it felt like to suddenly understand normality, "I have become something of an amateur expert. Joe always encouraged us to be normal - it helped our parents be a little normal too when we were here."

He was painting an odd picture of domestic bliss that Freud would have just loved to study. Raised by 3 adults who all served different purposes. One man in love with his mother and the other married to her who just happened, by a happy coincidence, to be his father. He knew she must think it was crazy. Or maybe she didn't because she couldn't possibly understand the fractious nature of those relationships that had been broken and forged and mended and nourished in the rooms above their heads.

"I didn't realise how close you were to Joe, you know," she said instead, not really focusing on the oddness of it all.

Mia had never witnessed the oddness of it all; she had only been a spectator after his father's passing. He realised it made it easier to tell her.

"He was my mother's body guard as long as I can remember," he answered, twisting the other bottles and resting them again, one after the other.

He had never once suspected that his mother and Joe were having an affair but he knew they wanted it. He watched them actively want it without doing it. Even at thirteen years old he had understood lust and attraction. That was why he admired them both so much. They had resisted temptation and closeness for years.

"Yeah," she shrugged, "I'm just starting to understand that you all have a history with this house."

"Does that upset you?"

"Oh, no," she shook her head, "It's nice to be where he was. I mean my father. And it's good to see grandma less on edge. I feel sorry for her though. I catch her staring into nowhere sometimes and I know she's thinking about him. I thought I could solve it sort of but I guess it's not fixable."

"No it's not," Pierre sat on the bottom step and motioned her over. He wrapped an arm around her narrow shoulders. She had his brother's ears; he'd never noticed that before, "But you've made it so much better."

"The summer after he died was the worst," he started, wanting to share the grief with her that he'd never expressed before, the grief of watching a part of his mother go with his brother, "I took six weeks sabbatical to stay with my mama. She, the whole thing, was a nightmare. The palace was in turmoil and the only person holding it together was Joe. He was with her night and day. He made her eat and sleep and work. I was a coward and I retreated from her, unlike him. He slept on the couch in her suite every night. But be disappeared sometimes too because he was struggling. He re-did this entire house in the moments where he was free from her. You see, he was really close to your father. Before this it was very retro! Ha. All wood panels and eighties looking. Each spare moment he had he spent here - I think for him, it was catharsis; painting, carving, drilling. Then they came to America for you. He was with Phillipe when he died you know."

"No," Mia said quietly, "I didn't."

"He was. I think mama is only realising it now, that it had a big effect on all of us," he muttered, realising his rumblings were incoherent almost, "She is so much happier because of you Mia. She hasn't been this happy in years."

"I'm tempted to quote her; "Tush!""

He laughed at her lamentable attempt at his mother's accent, "You need to work on that."

"Yes. You do."

They turned to see the subject of their discussion at the top of the stairs, hands on her linen clad hips. Mia reddened considerably but smiled as she realised the older woman was smiling too.

"I was sent by the head-chef, who's paella is growing cold, to find out what had happened to our wine," she came down the stairs carefully, obviously reluctant to touch the dusty banister, "He's being quite the taskmaster."

She had reached them now, and as they stood, she quickly enveloped them both, one after the other, in an awkward embrace. They were rather off balance on the steps but they had little choice but to hug her back.

She made a little "hah!" In the back of her throat and Pierre knew it will enough to be the noise she used to dispel emotion so it didn't overwhelm her. He felt embarrassed for her then because she had heard them talking and was obviously touched. He broke the silence as they all turned to climb the stairs.

"That Head of Security is overworking you mama," he laughed, sharing a secretive wink and smirk with his niece.

She made big, frightened eyes that begged him not to wind his mother up but, unlike Amelia, he wasn't afraid of her.

"Isn't he just?"

He saw Mia relax a little when she realised her grandmother was in a playful mood.

"I've never actually saw you take orders from someone before grandma," Mia said as they entered the kitchen.

"No," she smiled, and Pierre was delighted to see it, "I don't suppose you have. For Joseph though, I make the odd exception."

He looked at Joe then, at the other end of the table and holding up the wine, tried his best to look sorry. The other man smiled and shook his head, a ghost of a laugh on his lips. His mother moved away from him, taking the vacant seat beside Joe. Pierre proceeded to uncork and pour the wine, filling the four adults' glasses but had to move Charlotte and Shades away when they protested that they didn't want any.

"Charlotte," his mother said, "Please, it's only wine with dinner."

"Your Majesty, I'd rather not," the girl said meekly and Pierre shared a consoling smile with her.

"Mia, Lily, would you like some?"

He could have sworn his niece's head nearly twisted off, she snapped it around so quickly.

"Don't look so shocked dear," his mother said calmly, "Like many European countries, our age limit is much lower than in America and we encourage our young people to enjoy a sensible wine with dinner rather than a ridiculous bender on the night of their twenty first birthday."

"Your Majesty, people tend to go on benders before their 21st these days," Lily laughed.

"I didn't think you knew what a bender was," Joseph teased.

"Well you are eighteen," his mother took the glasses from him and slid them towards the two girls, ignoring Joe, "One glass of one of the finest wines your country has to offer should be educational enough. It's a shame to waste them."

"Ma'am," Joseph finally muttered, reaching for the massive serving spoon that rested on the paella, "While you're ruminating, the dinner's getting cold."

"Heavens Joseph," she laughed, "You're such a grouch when you're hungry. And I have been on a bender or two myself. They just tend to involve champagne."

"I know," he piled food onto her plate, not stopping until a small mountain rested on the crockery. Pierre watched his mother's face curl up in a smile of amusement.

"Joseph, are you trying to kill me?"

Everyone enjoyed the look of disgruntlement that crossed the Head of Security's face at their laughter. Hollow legs, Pierre thought to himself.

Pierre took a moment to look around him - forced himself to take a mental image of the smile on his mother's face that was lighting up her eyes. He wanted to steal this moment from time and keep it because it felt like being a child again. There was protection here that he didn't have any more and while there was a vacancy that couldn't be filled, Mia had somewhat softened the edges of that hurt for all 3 of them.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading. <strong>


	5. Five

**Thank you so very much for reading and reviewing this story. I am very much enjoying it. It's probably going to be longer between updates, but it will be finished. **

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><p>He folded his jeans, leaving them over the seat by the window and stretched out his legs. It was fine in the morning but by the end of the day his knee ached properly. It was a dull ache of old age and it hurt his vanity more than anything else. For a man who worked out with a religious zeal and prided himself on his impressive physical stamina, it was difficult to give in to the ageing process.<p>

The darkness was pressed against the window, the moon made shafts of light, and the house was quietly settling into its first night with more than one occupant for the longest time. He sat down on the edge of the bed and lightly massaged his knee, wincing as his thumb pressed against the bone of his kneecap. He shook his head, feeling the wine was clouding it. He stripped his t-shirt off and left it on the floor. He was usually very tidy and couldn't be comfortable unless there was order and tidiness. It was a throwback from his days in the military, where there was no option to be untidy or disorganised. He removed his watch and laid it on the bedside table. He looked at his book, new and fresh, the spine unbroken, and contemplated reading it before deciding that he wouldn't be able to concentrate. He pulled up the sheets, took pleasure in the freshness of the blue cotton as he settled into the silence of sleep but he knew it would be elusive. He switched off the light and pretended to himself that he was tired.

He tried to force his body into exhaustion, as it clearly was, but his mind could not switch off. He turned into the pillow, smoothed it out, turned again to face the shafts of moonlight directly. He thought of her hands at dinner working the salad with all the commitment of a traitor and laughed a little. Her mouth around the wine glass, her eyes fleeting to his and back to those around the table.

Domesticated she was not.

He thought about her like this often; as if she were just simply a woman with whom he was in love. It was a fresh blow every time he realised it was not as simple.

The door fell open a while later, as he stared at the shaft of light across the ceiling. He had half-expected it and it was maybe the reason that he couldn't find sleep; he waited on her because he knew she would come.

"I can't sleep," she closed the door softly, making sure the latch didn't click as loudly as it would have normally. She padded towards him, drifting in and out of the shafts of the moonlight. She was dressed in ridiculously flowing swathes of white cotton – completely impractical for sleeping in he imagined. They must tangle around her legs and bunch up.

"It's a bad idea for you to be here," he whispered, sitting up, "You should go back to your room."

She stopped at the foot of his bed and stared at him. Then she lifted her shoulders and gave what he considered to be her version of a shrug. She smiled.

"I can't sleep," she whispered simply.

"What if Mia or -"

She was pulling the covers aside already, urging him to move over because the bed was pressed to the wall and there was no other side to climb into. Her determination was impressive to say the least. Despite himself, and his better judgement, the temptation of having her in his bed was too much to resist. He moved over, propping his head on his hand.

"You've never slept in my bed before."

"Your coming to my room is far less suspicious than my wandering to yours," she answered simply, "I'm not one to draw attention."

"No," he agreed, "You're not."

"Your room is just across the hall here and," she lay down beside him, "I can't resist."

"Admitting weakness?" He teased lightly.

"Embracing it," she answered, turning her face from him, "If I am making you uncomfortable-"

He felt dread in his stomach. She was tricky like this and, at times, unpredictable in her moods. He touched her shoulder and, sliding down, pulled away the loose cotton sleeve to kiss the skin there.

"No, you are not making me uncomfortable," he whispered, "I just don't want you to be in a compromising position."

"We're far beyond a compromising position Joseph," she laughed, "Though we may literally be in one."

"Not as much of one as I'd like," he tugged on the shoulder of her gown.

He was too tired for this conversation; he wanted just to make love to her, to tumble, and whisper that he loved her, and then have her fall asleep in his arms. Sometimes he grew tired of being frightened that their next conversation would be the one where she finally decided it was too much. He had grown tired of talking about the maybes and the buts. He wanted so much to be in the now.

"Don't embarrass me."

"I'm sorry. I find you very, very desirable," he whispered, "More than any woman I've ever had."

"God, I am a rare breed then," she teased, "You don't want to talk, do you?"

"I get tired of talking," he answered honestly, "I get frightened when you over-think things so much, and sometimes, I just want to silence you because I'm frightened you'll think yourself out of this. I don't mean I don't want you to tell me how you feel I just-"

"I don't blame you," she whispered, genuinely, and it was clear she was not hurt by his honesty, "I know you treat me like a fragile little bird and I know I let you."

"You are fragile to me. To me you are the most precious thing," he answered, "But I am afraid sometimes that you're going to tell me you can't do this any more. I can't push the feeling away that you'll suddenly come to the realisation that it's too much trouble."

The expert in security, he thought to himself, was very insecure.

"Have you so little faith in me?"

She sounded hurt and the barb was evident in her voice.

"It's not about faith or trust. It's about what we can withstand – I know the pressure exhausts you," he answered, "And I'm afraid that I'm not enough for you. I'm not like the men you know, or the men you grew up with."

They were having a conversation – not what he had wanted or intended. He scolded himself for his own stupidity but they were in that place now. He had wanted, so desperately, to share this with her for months. To ask her to just see it from his point of view but now he lacked the eloquence and timing and the right to say it.

And here, when he watched her, and he cooked with her and she was so normal, it was difficult not to want more. When she crept into his bed like it was the most natural thing in the world, it was so difficult not to want more.

"If I didn't love you, I'd be offended. You speak to me like I haven't already made the choice, as if you're petitioning me to make a choice," she said calmly, "I'm in your bed, I'm in your arms and, you have led me to believe, your heart. My choice is already made. I can't do any more than that. You have to uphold your side of the bargain and believe that I will too."

He was impressed with the elegance of her speech. He had allowed himself to forget how clever she was, and though not always, how sure of herself she could be.

He did want to believe her and he did most of the time. Being here though made him wish for more than he could have with her and it was painful – that was why he had delayed asking her to come back here after the first night they had been together in San Fransisco. He thought of them in the kitchen, of her watching him cook and pouring wine for her and making love to her on the table in this house. He wanted her to be his wife and that he could never have. He should have known that before he invited her, as she had so poetically put it, into his heart.

"Will you make love to me?" She sat up, leaning over him and pressing her lips to his.

He had never thought she would be so confident like this and it had surprised him at first. Then again, she had nothing to lack confidence over.

"You are, I believe, a man of action. I can't give you what you want Joseph; not because I don't want to give you it but because I cannot give you it. You're acting like that distinction doesn't exist. Don't bring me here, to this place, and make demands of me. I wouldn't do it to you. I need you and you know that."

She slid down beside him, pressing her warm body to his. He hadn't ever been seduced by a woman, he was sure, and yet that was what appeared to be happening now. But he had started a conversation he wanted to end. She was straddling him now though, and he found it hard to form a coherent thought. He sat up, using the wall as leverage, so she was essentially in his lap. He placed his hands on her hips to hold her there.

"I'm sorry," he rasped a little, pulling away, "That was so selfish of me."

She sat back, though stayed in his lap, and looked at him.

"I'm more resilient that you think," she whispered, tracing a finger along his beard, "You should tell me how you feel more. I want this to be a partnership. God knows my last relationship failed dreadfully due to poor communication."

That was an understatement that was cushioned in such strange language that he had a hard time agreeing with her. No, your marriage was a sham, he felt like saying. He remembered that afternoon in the winter castle, when she had told him she wanted to have an affair with him. All the power it had taken to resist and his fantasies were a reality now. And they were a gorgeous, brutal, intense reality that he was lucky to have. He should bear that in mind.

If he had any grace he should have thrown himself at her feet and begged for her mercy.

"Forgive me for my selfishness," he pressed his head to her chest, "I just want you as you are, my darling, and I hate myself for wanting more. I am sorry."

"I want more," she rested her head on his shoulder, "You believe that, don't you?"

"Yes."

She sat back, moved from his lap and crawled under the sheets, pulling them up to her chest. The moment had slipped away from him and it was unfair and cruel.

"It's being here...I know that. I relax a little more and we allow ourselves to think it is okay," she suddenly whispered, "I know that it's all of this."

"I am sorry," he shook his head, "I am sorry for making you talk about this."

"Isn't it terrible you are always the one apologising? Even though you're not always the one in the wrong," she watched as he lay beside her.

He smiled, "Clarisse, I will always want more from you. I can't apologise for loving you so much that I want more," he kissed her forehead, "I am sorry though, that it hurts you."

She shook her head, "It doesn't hurt so much as it makes me feel powerless. I think that's the most difficult thing."

He nodded and folded her in his arms, "Will you stay here?"

She kissed his chin, "Despite myself I don't think I can leave you."

"No, that seems to be the issue with both of us," he answered dryly.

She turned round so her back was pressed to his chest, both of them facing out into the moonlight.

They lay in silence for a while, sleep luring them into thoughtless oblivion that required no panic or fear, but she broke it when she said, "Thank you for the perfume."

"You're welcome," he kissed the back of her neck, where he could still smell the lingering scent.

"I'm falling asleep," she said, "I am sorry."

"Don't," he squeezed her waist, "Let's not spend any more time apologising."

But she was already fast asleep, apologies for all sorts of things, for which neither of them we responsible, lingering on her lips.

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><p>Please read and review! Thank you.<p> 


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